


Through this new frame of mind

by meeks00



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meeks00/pseuds/meeks00
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walt had felt itchy at home. Felt like he wanted to return something, to exchange it maybe, but you can’t really do that kind of shit to things other than too-small t-shirts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through this new frame of mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Glory Box” by Portishead. For pjvilar: I…maybe cut the part that had to do with the line I picked from your song choice (and I may recycle it later), but here you go! ♥

_From this time, unchained  
We're all looking at a different picture  
Through this new frame of mind  
A thousand flowers could bloom  
Move over, and give us some room_  
— “Glory Box” by Portishead

 

Walt stopped by his cousin’s place in Indianapolis for a night — got caught in traffic winding through the city and then lost his way for half an hour trying to find parking. But other than that, it was a straight shot from Taylorstown, Virginia, to Nevada, Missouri.

The invitation had been an open one. Came in all sorts of forms — e-mails, texts, a series of voicemails and missed calls. And then e-vites and everything from birthday cards to ‘Congratulations, It’s a Girl!” cards in the mail.

Each message essentially followed the same theme: _My dearest Suzie Rottencrotch, quit bustin’ your balls out there in your backwards hickville and make your way down to_ my _backwards hickville._

Walt finally gave in after several weeks spent on his ass with PBR bottles littering his living room and shooting cans at the free range with his old high school buddies.

He’d felt itchy at home. Felt like he wanted to return something, to exchange it maybe, but you can’t really do that kind of shit to things other than too-small t-shirts.

He wondered if going to visit Ray would be the same. Wondered if that too would feel like he was trying to go back to something that didn't quite fit anymore. Part of him didn’t want to take that chance.

But Ray was too persistent of a motherfucker to let it lie. And Walt didn’t want to keep screening calls and checking to make sure his mailbox wasn’t overstuffed again. He didn't want to know what measures Ray would take next if pushed to the limit.

In the end, Walt’s bank account was low on zeros, but his car was full of gas and his stomach full of teriyaki-flavored beef jerky, nacho-flavored Combos, and root beer. Not just butterflies.

He was greeted at the door that night with a surprised grin and then a kind of confused one when Walt walked right in and claimed a spot on the couch. He sacked out on his belly, let his arm hang off the side and knuckles brush the rough carpet.

He shut his eyes and fell fast into a dreamless sleep.

 

__

 

When he woke, it was quiet and it was bright out. The cable box read 7:57 a.m. It smelled like freshly cut grass because all the windows were open. It also smelled of eggs. He rolled over and sat up, kicked off the static-filled fleece blanket he was tangled up in.

The place looked pretty clean in the light — cleaner than Walt thought Ray would be capable of keeping it. No clutter littered the book shelves or the table or the floor, though the couch was prickly from crumbs and the beige carpet had a few stains.

It kind of reminded him of his own home, stirred up that itchy feeling a bit. He wondered at the fact that he was already planning his route back east when he hadn’t yet been here for twenty four hours.

He stood up and noticed his shoes were sitting neatly by the coffee table. He must’ve passed out pretty hard if he didn’t notice Ray pull those off. Then he saw the laces were untied. He shook his head and looked away from them.

In the kitchen, he followed his nose. It led him to the oven and a full plate of turning-stale pancakes and four hard-boiled eggs — his favorite. Something uncoiled in his gut at the sight of them. They reminded him of libo: a couple of days shacked up in a shared hotel room, breakfast while squished together on a twin-sized bed, and numerous trips to the store for unrefrigerated, store-bought Australian eggs.

The platter reminded him of other things too — so much skin and ink like shadows in the dark — but Walt had thought enough about those moments to get him here and didn't think he had the right to go over them again in his head without knowing what his being here meant exactly.

He popped a whole egg into his mouth and wandered back to the living room, armed with his full plate and a surprisingly ravenous appetite. Ray’s place didn’t have a dining room, just a kitchen, a living room, and a hallway that seemed to lead to a single bedroom. Walt looked around from his spot in the doorway.

Sitting against a lean table adjacent to the entertainment system was a guitar case and an unplugged amp. Walt remembered Ray talking incessantly about his band, but for some reason he envisioned drums to go with the tattoos, to compete for volume against Ray’s voice.

There weren’t many picture frames, but there were a few paintings and photographs the size of posters. There was an out-of-place, expensive-looking vase on top of one bookshelf. It had crispy brown flowers hanging over its rim.

Part of Walt wondered where those came from. Another part of him was tired just at the thought of trying to figure it out.

After a moment, when his eggs were all gone, Walt went to sit on the couch. He ate the pancakes even though he wasn’t really hungry anymore. Didn’t think the dry feeling in his throat was from the lack of syrup to go with them. He flipped on the TV and waited for Ray to get back.

 

__

 

“Miss me, Walt baby?” Ray asked when he walked in ten minutes later. He had his t-shirt in one hand, was shiny with sweat, wore running shoes. He had a smile plastered on too, but it was muted, careful.

Walt searched for something to say, anything to get rid of the caution he saw there.

The silence stretched on, so he settled with a grin — one he hoped fell somewhere between _hey there_ and _thanks for breakfast_. He wondered if it came out as the _sorry it took me so long_ that it was meant to be.

Seemed like it was the right mix, though, when Ray tossed his shirt at him and followed it up by jumping right on top of him.

Walt didn’t fight him off.

Ray smelled like the sun and sweat and Old Spice. His legs straddled Walt’s hips, knees pressed tight against hip bones. The weight was familiar, warm, so solid. Ray slid one hand to the crook of Walt’s neck, thumb tilting his face up.

“Not the greeting I was hopin’ for last night, but I figure you can make that up to me,” Ray said, raising and lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

He paused then, seemed to grow quiet even in the silence. Walt watched his face and waited.

Ray leaned forward to rest his forehead against Walt’s. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that?” he muttered.

Walt let his eyes slip closed, nodded slowly. The slip of skin on skin was slick with Ray’s sweat. He put his hands on Ray’s hips, pressed his fingertips into muscle and bone. Breathed out with something like relief at the familiar feel of the hard curves.

Walt felt Ray’s nose trail a path to his temple, felt the smile against the crown of his cheek.“You gone mute on me, Hasser? Am I gonna have to find a way to make you talk? You know I’ve got ways.” Despite the threat in his words, his voice was soft, as if he was worried about breaking the quiet moment.

Walt pulled away to flip him the bird.

“You suspicious, kinky motherfucker,” Ray said with a laugh. “I was talkin’ about interrogation tactics and shit. All that SERE fuckery? It’s still all up in here.” He tapped his temple with the middle finger of his free hand. “I remember how to tie hands together like a pro and get a man on the ground. Just try me.”

Walt surprised himself with the sound of his own laugh.

Ray nodded decisively and said, “Yeah, homes. You totally missed me.” He sounded cocky, smug. But his expression made it seem like a question despite the grin on his face.

Walt slid his hands up Ray’s bare back, up smooth skin and over the sharp panes of his shoulder blades. Next, he brought his hands forward so he could run them up Ray’s chest, ghosting over tattoos and budding nipples. When his hands finally settled cupping Ray’s face, Walt leaned in and affirmed that statement in the only way he could right then.

Ray seemed to get the message loud and clear.

 

**


End file.
